


Finding the Perfect Gift (Including Ones You Didn’t Know You Had), a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Christmas at the Watson-Holmeses [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hamish, John, and Sherlock go Christmas shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Perfect Gift (Including Ones You Didn’t Know You Had), a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hamish Watson-Holmes, created by valeria2067 [here](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/11679232191/hamish-a-sherlock-john-ficlet-pairing). For more Hamish stories, go [here](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Part II of a series of interconnected Christmas stories.

Hamish squirmed as John pulled a woolly hat down over his ears. “Hal, hold still,” he admonished as Hamish twisted out from under his father’s hands, hat firmly in place.

“Father! Are you ready?”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, carefully pulling on his gloves. “Do you have your list?”

Hamish waved the slightly rumpled wish list he’d written a few short weeks ago and beamed at his parents. He carefully folded the list and pushed it into a pocket before reaching up and taking Sherlock’s hand, then John’s. John smiled down at him and opened the door, letting in a swirl of cold air as they stepped out and headed down the street for the Tube station.

As much as Sherlock hated the Tube, Hamish loved it. He stared wide-eyed at everyone, clutching his fathers’ hands and whispering questions to Sherlock, who encouraged him to turn his questions into observations.

 _God help me, there’ll be two of them,_ John thought fondly as Hamish’s excited babble flowed around him, mixed in with the general noise of the Tube.

Once they’d got out of the station, Sherlock turned to Hamish and asked who he wanted to start with.

“Aunt Sarah,” Hamish said firmly. “Hers is small and light and there’s a Waterstone’s nearby.”

Twenty minutes later, with much help from his parents, Hamish was swinging a bag from one hand and clinging to Sherlock with the other. Finding Hamish’s gifts for Mrs. Hudson, Anthea, and Harry didn’t take much time, and neither did finding Molly’s tea, but Hamish wasn’t happy with the mug selection. “Can we look online, Dad? They don’t have any for people who work with dead people here.”

John fought a grin as he agreed.

They were walking down the street, Hamish and John discussing Greg’s gift. “A coat like Father’s is something that Uncle Mycroft could buy for Uncle Greg because it’s too expensive for us to buy a coat like Father’s.”

Hamish frowned a little as he thought about a replacement gift. “Oh! Could we get him a scarf and gloves like Father’s? Then if Uncle Mycroft gets him the coat, he’ll have stuff to match.”

“I think that would be fine. What do you think, Sherlock?” John turned to his husband, who wasn’t there.

Startled, John looked over his shoulder and spotted Sherlock standing in front of a shop window a few shops back. A window stuffed full of brollies, handbags, scarves, and other accessories. Sherlock’s face was lit with unholy glee, and as they drew closer, John saw why. Not one of the umbrellas was black. They were rather….interesting shades, like puce and periwinkle and a nauseatingly vibrant neon green.

“Hamish, what do you think about these umbrellas for Uncle Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

Hamish’s grin was an almost mirror-copy of his father’s. John groaned.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in possession of a very nice blue scarf and set of leather gloves for Greg, and a lurid pink umbrella for Mycroft.

A few hours later, John was comfortably ensconced on his chair with Hamish in his lap, perusing various sites for the perfect mug for Molly. Sherlock was off on a case, and the flat was almost too quiet—the only sounds were the quiet clicks of the keys and the crackle of the fire.

“Have you thought about how you want to do your Father’s scrapbook?” John asked as he clicked on another link, scrolling through the options.

“Mmmhmm. I need some things to do it, though. Can we go shopping?”

“How about tomorrow? Write up a list of what you need and we’ll go get it. Okay?”

“Okay. That one!” One chubby finger pointed at the screen. John clicked on the picture.

“I think that one’s perfect. Do you think your Father would like one, too?”

“Yeah! He and Aunt Molly can be mug twins!”

“Don’t say that in front of your Father,” John chuckled as he entered his account details.

The next day, John and Hamish went out and bought a sturdy trunk, binders, plastic sleeves, coloured paper, tape, and markers. Hamish bundled it all up the stairs and shut his door. When John went up to check on him a hour later, there was a bright sign on the door that said

 _Keep out Working on Present_

John smiled and crept back down the stairs.

When Hamish emerged for dinner, John asked, “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Hamish replied with his mouth full. John frowned at him, and Hamish looked abashed as he chewed, swallowed, and apologised.

“How’s what going?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” Hamish said, plastering his best innocent look on his face. “When can you and me go shopping for Dad?”

“You and I can go shopping whenever you’re ready. Do you know what you want to get him?”

Hamish nodded.

“And what’s that, then?” John asked.

Hamish giggled. “I can’t tell you!”

John pouted and then lunged for his son, tickling him mercilessly, almost having to shout to be heard over Hamish’s squeals. “What about now? Can you tell me now?”

“No! No, Daddy! It’s a surprise!”

John redoubled his tickling. Hamish managed to wiggle out from under John’s onslaught and and leapt into his father’s lap, begging him to “Help, Father! We haveta beat the tickle monster!”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed as he swung Hamish up and off his lap and advanced on his husband, pinning him and tickling his sides. Hamish yelled in triumph and joined them, tickling both his parents until all three of them were an exhausted, laughing heap on the floor.

Four days later, Sherlock bundled Hamish up against the cold and took him to the Tube station.

“Now, what type of jumper did you want to get?” Sherlock asked as they passed through the turnstile and headed for their train.

“Something cuddly and soft so that Dad’s even more snuggly.”

Sherlock smiled. “Right. Let’s see what we find.”

Three shops later, Hamish found what he was looking for. He pulled Sherlock’s hand, tugging him over to a table full of soft cashmere jumpers, and pointed to one in dove grey. “I think that one’s it,” he said as Sherlock reached down to rub the jumper between his fingers.

“I agree.” He quickly lifted up the jumpers until he found one in John’s size and let Hamish take it out from the pile. His son opened the jumper and inspected it critically, a small frown that looked exactly like John’s on his face as he turned the jumper round and round.

“Well? Is that the one?” Sherlock asked after a few moments.

“It’s perfect.”

  
They walked back to Baker Street hand-in-hand, the bag with John’s jumper swinging in Hamish’s hand. As he unlocked the door to their flat, Sherlock looked down at Hamish and nearly gasped at the sheer joy on his son’s face as he peeked in the bag, reaching in and rubbing at the jumper one more time. There had been a time in his life when he didn’t believe joy existed, but by some miracle, he had found it here in this little boy and in his husband. He was interrupted in his reverie by Hamish’s small voice, sounding unsure and concerned.

“Do you think Dad’ll like it?” Hamish asked, biting his lip.

“He’ll love it. Just as much as he loves you.”

Hamish’s face nearly split with the force of his smile as he threw his arms around Sherlock and said, “Thanks, Father. I love you!”

Sherlock cupped one hand around the back of his head, pressing him close as he murmured, “I love you, too.”

Hamish pulled away and bounded up the stairs, bag swinging from one fist, yelling, “Come on! I want to wrap this before Dad gets home!”

Sherlock chuckled and followed him up the stairs, marvelling at the idea of wrapping gifts for his husband with their son. If someone had told him ten years ago that he’d be doing this now, Sherlock would have recommended they speak to a doctor because they were clearly delusional.

And yet, here he was, and he could’t imagine his life any other way.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Here's what Molly's mug [looks like](http://www.cafepress.com/+torso_skeleton_of_the_human_b_mug,369141585).


End file.
